


Before Summer Rain

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Coming Out, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The progress of a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 28th, 2011

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a charity drive in 2010.

On a bright summer afternoon, the last Sunday of the month and the final day before the US Open, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal held a press conference. Together.

The date was August 28th, 2011. The time, 5:57 pm EST. The conference hall was filled to maximum capacity with journalists and microphones and the glare of a hundred lights, a hundred pairs of eyes. The atmosphere hummed with voices, whispering, tension pulsing like an unplucked violin string.

In the holding area to the side, behind a set of tinted glass doors, Rafa stood with his shoulder blades resting lightly against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed―just breathing. Roger paced. He tugged at the collar of his polo (white, no logo), straightened the sleeves, shivered at the touch of the AC on his arms. 

They had memorized the questions, rehearsed their lines. They had a statement, exactly one and a half pages long. And then, after that, there would be the doubts. The speculation. The thinly veiled accusations.

_Mr. Federer. Mr. Nadal. What made you decide to bring this into the open now, after so long? There are many people who have wished for a day like this, no doubt, and many more who hoped it would never come. Why? You bring us a message of openness, of acceptance. Why now? Do you think the rest of the tennis world will follow your example? What do the other players think of this? Will there be an official statement from the ATP, regarding the question of homophobia in men's tennis? The US Open begins tomorrow. Will this be a distraction from the tennis? Will you be ready?_

Were they ready? It wasn't a question so much as a mandate. They had to be ready, even if the rest of the world wasn't, because it had all come to this. This day, this hour and this moment. There was no turning back now.


	2. April 2007 to January 2009

It didn't begin quite like he had expected, though Rafa always thought it had to happen somehow. Someday. Soon. 

Because whenever they were together, it felt like fire sparking beside dry timber. That would be all it took, a small push, one mis-step to set the world alight, if ever they got close enough. Roger knew this, too, Rafa thought, and so they kept each other at arm's length, maintaining that last buffer between them lest they burn everything to the ground.

They were rivals; they were tennis players; they were public figures, and the world wasn't a kind place. So it made sense, Rafa supposed. Rafa respected that distance, because it made sense.

And it continued to make sense until one evening―one cool, misty, summer evening in Monte Carlo―when Rafa came back to his hotel at 9:30 to find Roger pacing the corridor in front of his (Rafa's) room. Roger was wearing dress shoes, but his shirt was untucked and he smelled faintly of alcohol, his eyes red around the edges, and when Rafa asked what was wrong, he said,

"Mirka and I had another fight."

And Rafa knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. He took a step closer. "You wish to come in?" he asked, because they were friends, "To talk?" He placed one hand on Roger's shoulder in what he hoped was a firm, friendly gesture. Comforting. (Not an invitation, no, not at all.) 

The next thing he knew, Roger's hands were bracketing his face and their lips were crushed together. Rafa gasped, hand tightening on Roger's shoulder―because even if Roger was disheveled, drunk, even if Roger would probably regret this in the morning (or in ten seconds), even if this turned out to be the biggest mistake in the history of mistakes―

The hotel corridor was deserted, mercifully, but Rafa pushed Roger back. It took more willpower than Rafa knew he had―like being mired in a baseline rally, eighth game of the fifth set, the drop shot coming when he least expected it, and suddenly he's sprinting, telling his aching legs to move, _move_ ―but he managed it, the same way he managed everything: because he had to. 

Because, even now, he couldn't shake the fear that someone would catch them, and that would be a disaster of unimaginable proportions. Roger was the world number one, after all, and he had to look and act the part―for the sponsors, for the media. Rafa understood that.

Roger backed off at the first sign of reluctance from Rafa; something in his eyes shuttered closed, and Rafa knew that the next thing out of his mouth would be an apology. So he pressed two fingers to Roger's lips, smiled at the confusion in the older man's face and said softly,

"Is in public, no? We go to my room. More safe."

He wondered, fleetingly, what had driven Roger to come here in the first place. Rafa knew this was risky―could sense the risk (the thrill) racing all across his skin, sparking electricity and desire―surely, Roger knew that, too. And yet, Roger had come here. Roger had come here, to find him. Him, Rafa.

It was like every daydream Rafa had ever had, but better, because Roger was real, he was there, eyes dark and hair tousled, breath warm against Rafa's skin, his lips already reddening from that one (perfect) kiss.

Roger's confusion had melted away at this point, replaced by a small, secret smile. He caught Rafa's hand in his own, and his fingers were strong, calloused. The hands of a tennis player, familiar to Rafa as if they were his own, but the mirror opposite, altogether foreign and more wonderful than words could explain.

Rafa curled his fingers around Roger's hand, holding on, let Roger tug him in the direction of his hotel room.

"Come on, then," he said, and Rafa went.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Roger had Rafa backed up against it, kissing him as if he were a drowning man and Rafa his last breath of air. Eventually Rafa had to surface himself, panting, head clouded with pleasure and heart beating like a wild thing against his ribcage. 

_Yes_ , he thought with fierce elation. _Yes_.

Roger gasped as Rafa's hands slipped under his shirt, fingers splayed across the small of his back. Rafa could feel Roger already half hard against his hip. He arched up, grinding against him―and Roger _moaned_. His hands pressed against Rafa's hips, sliding down to cup the swell of his ass, and Rafa leaned in for another kiss.

Roger paused. "Wait," he said suddenly, pulling back. "Wait. Rafa. We―we should talk first."

Rafa took a moment to admire how Roger didn't slur his speech at all, even though he'd been drinking. Maybe he just wasn't very drunk. Or maybe his English was always this perfect. Rafa wouldn't be surprised; Roger was pretty much perfect at everything. 

Then the words registered.

"Talk?" Rafa frowned. He still had his hands up Roger's shirt. "You wish to― Now?"

"Yes." Roger sounded both determined and terrified. Determined despite being terrified, maybe; that sounded like something his Rogelio would do. "We should, because― I mean. Are you― I don't― Is this okay?"

Rafa stared at him. Was this _okay_? "Roger," he said, very slowly, "I am thinking all the time, when we together. All the time, wishing this. I am wishing..." This was one of those times when Rafa really, truly regretted his inadequate English. How could he explain this to Roger? For that matter, why didn't Roger already understand?

"Rogelio," he tried, hands slipping down to hook his fingers through Roger's belt loops, pulling him closer. "Te quiero. You understand? Te quiero."

Roger didn't speak Spanish―though he was trying, picking up fragments of sentences and conversation here and there―and some of it was bound to get lost in translation, but Rafa could see the exact moment when the words got through to him. He saw something shift in Roger's expression, saw his eyes darken; Roger let out a long, slow breath, and smiled.

"Oh," he said. "That's― Yeah. Okay."

And a moment later, Rafa found himself pinned against the door again, Roger crowding him in on all sides, hands roaming everywhere, and this was so, so much better than talking. Rafa pushed back, tugging Roger in the direction of the bed, one hand already fumbling at the zipper of his jeans. 

Roger made a sound against his lips when Rafa, having finally gotten his fly open, wasted no time dipping his hand beneath the waistband of Roger's briefs. Roger was hot and heavy in his palm, and Rafa swallowed the sharp gasp that issued from Roger's lips. He licked his way into Roger's mouth, tongue swiping across lips, teeth, tasting the residual bitterness of alcohol and the warm, wet, sweetness that was all Roger.

"Shirt," Roger managed to say, but not without some difficulty, "now." He pulled at the hem of Rafa's t-shirt, and Rafa raised his arms obligingly. He kicked off his shoes and turned his attention to Roger's button down shirt while Roger traced patterns across his skin and said things like, "God, Rafa, you're so beautiful."

Roger was watching him with such intensity in his eyes that Rafa had to look away. He willed his fingers to stop trembling, because those buttons weren't coming undone by themselves. 

"This shirt," he muttered, and Roger came to his rescue, making quick work of the buttons. Rafa smoothed his hands over Roger's exposed chest, trailing ever lower as the shirt fell open. Roger had hair _everywhere_ , dark and curling where it grew long, and Rafa thought he probably shouldn't find it a turn on, except he did, because it was Roger. And everything about Roger―Rafa wanted it all. Wanted it _now_.

"Roger," he breathed.

Something beeped loudly in Roger's pants pocket; they both froze. It beeped again, and Roger pulled out his cell phone. Rafa could tell who it was, from the way Roger's expression changed, even before Roger said,

"It's Mirka."

Her name was like a slap to his face. Rafa reminded himself that yes, there was still Mirka (because Mirka had always been there, always would be). Rafa felt his chest tighten, felt his jaw tighten; his hands settled around Roger's hips once more.

"She wants to know where I am," Roger said. He pressed a few buttons; the phone beeped, then the screen went dark again. He took a step back, moving away from the bed, away from Rafa. 

Rafa tensed his arms and didn't let go.

"Roger. Please."

Roger swallowed. "I can't stay."

Rafa gently pried the phone out of Roger's hands and tossed it behind him onto the bed. 

"Then we will be quick, no?"

"Rafa―"

His voice cracked on the second syllable as Rafa shoved him backwards. Two, three steps and his back was against the wall; Rafa dropped to his knees, pulling Roger's khakis down with him. Mouthed him, once, through the thin fabric of his briefs and felt Roger harden under his touch. 

Rafa tugged the briefs down to Roger's ankles and kissed his way back up, nuzzling against the inside of his thigh. He could see Roger's hands braced against the wall, knuckles white with tension. 

"Rafa, please―"

"Cállate." Rafa had his hands at Roger's hips, holding him still. "Or I bite you."

Roger stopped talking. Rafa allowed himself a small smile, gripped the base of Roger's cock with one hand and wrapped his lips around the head. There was no time for finesse―no time for the million and one things he wanted to do to Roger, for Roger―only enough time to make sure that Roger wouldn't forget this. (Make sure he would come back, if only for this.)

Feli had taught him a thing or two, last year, after Rafa had convinced him that he really _wasn't_ a kid anymore, and no, he wasn't trying to get into Feli's pants, because Feli probably had an STD from all the people he slept with, and no, he wasn't going to seduce Carlos either, how stupid did Feli think he was? Honestly, he just wanted to know how it worked. Please, Feli?

In the end, Feli had told him he was stupid, that it was 80% enthusiasm anyway, but Rafa knew those tips would come in handy one day. Like today. Like now, when the fingers combing through his hair suddenly tightened into a fist as Rafa swirled his tongue, licked at the slit, his lips slick with spit and precum. He cupped Roger's balls with his free hand, and Roger shivered. Both his hands were tangled in Rafa's hair, guiding his mouth. 

"Faster," Roger gasped, and, "yes, oh god, yes."

Behind the balls, Feli had told him, about halfway between, so Rafa reached back, carefully, pressed one finger against the warm, heated skin and curled his finger in a come-hither motion. Roger jerked in his mouth, making a choked off sound as a shudder went through his entire body. So Rafa did it again, harder this time―and Roger _keened_. 

Rafa kept one hand firmly around Roger's cock as he sucked him off, continued stroking him with the other, finding that spot again and again. Roger was coming apart in his hands, the rhythm of his hips falling into incoherence as he fucked Rafa's mouth. Rafa breathed through his nose and took as much as he could, flattening his tongue against the underside of Roger's cock until he felt the head hit the back of his throat.

Roger jerked again, a breathless _oh_ falling from his lips as he came; Rafa ignored his gag reflex and swallowed―and kept licking and swallowing until he'd wrung every last drop of pleasure from Roger's body. Then he placed his hands on Roger's hips, his thighs, stroking circles with his thumbs over the trembling muscles, letting him down gently from his release.

Roger tugged at his hair, pulling him upwards. Rafa let the softening cock slip out of his mouth and stood up, wincing; the hardwood floor hadn't been kind to his knees.

"Rafa." Roger's voice was hoarse. He brushed a few strands of hair away from Rafa's eyes, smoothed it back from Rafa's forehead, and Rafa wanted to memorize the way those hands felt against his skin.

Then Roger said, "Thank you," and kissed him, tongue pushing insistently into his mouth despite Rafa's muffled protest. Rafa's lips were swollen, and Roger kissed him slowly, thoroughly; when they pulled apart, Rafa's heart was pounding and he was out of breath all over again.

Roger's eyes flickered to the bed, at his phone. Rafa glanced at the clock. It was past ten. 

"I have to―" Roger started to say, and Rafa dropped his head and nodded, "Go."

Roger collected his phone. He dressed himself quickly, raked a hand through his hair to try and get it into some semblance of order. Rafa's fingers itched to touch those soft curls; he kept his hands behind his back, pressing his back against the wall. 

At the door, Roger hesitated. "So..."

"You call me, no?" Rafa said. "Or message. I wait."

"Yeah, of course." Roger smiled faintly as he turned the door handle. "I'll call you sometime."

The door closed behind him.

Rafa slid down, down, until he was sitting on the floor. The curtains weren't drawn, and only the light by the entrance was on; they hadn't had time to bother with any of the others. He pressed the heel of his hand against the tightness in his jeans, squeezing his eyes shut. He could still taste Roger on his tongue, bitter like guilt and the name of a woman that Roger loved.

His lips were sore, not to mention his legs. They hadn't used a condom; Feli would yell at him when he found out. And Feli always found out, because Rafa told him everything.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, he thought as he jerked himself off with a few quick, hard strokes. (Too fast, too much, not enough.) He knew that first times weren't usually all that great, but―it wasn't supposed to be like this.

 

* * *

 

Things could have been very awkward for a very long time after―after what happened. Fortunately for Rafa, however, the tennis meant that he didn't actually have to see Roger all that often. In fact, he found that he was quite good at avoiding Roger altogether. 

Or maybe that was just because Roger didn't call him. Didn't send any emails. Acted as if Rafa didn't even exist, really. 

It hurt, a little. But Rafa reminded himself that this meant he didn't have to deal with Toni confronting him about it. He'd already had Feli yell at him―for being stupid, for getting involved with Roger, for not using a condom, for being so completely _stupid_. Rafa ended up not talking to Feli for about two weeks, and that lead to Toni wanting to know what had happened, had he accidentally kissed Feli again―or worse, had he kisssed _Fernando_?

And, god, that had been awkward enough. Rafa didn't even want to think what the conversation would look like if Toni knew that it hadn't been Feli―or Fernando―but _Roger_. 

So maybe it was better this way. This way, he could focus on his tennis. This way, things could go back to normal, as much as he didn't want it to. Normal meant Roger smiled at Rafa and touched Rafa's arm and said nice, flattering things about Rafa in pressers and interviews, and all the while Rafa needed a self-imposed restraining order to prevent himself from becoming the next big scandal in tennis.

Because that wasn't part of his image. And image was all about other people―what other people saw, what other people expected, what other people knew―so his reality was malleable. He could pretend nothing was wrong. Nothing had happened. Monte Carlo was just one time. It would remain that way, Rafa told himself. It would be for the best, if the first time were the only time.

Except then the second time happened, in Hamburg, on a Monday. Rafa got the call at half past twelve. He'd just gotten out of the shower, quickly pulled on shorts and a shirt, then picked up his phone. The caller ID read "Roger."

Rafa told himself to breathe.

"Hola."

"Hey, Rafa." Roger sounded cheerful. Rafa hoped his own voice sounded normal. "Are you free this afternoon?"

"I finish with practice." Rafa sat down on his bed, toweling his hair with one hand, holding the phone to his ear with the other. His shirt clung to his shoulders, still a bit damp from the shower, and his shorts clung to his thighs. "Toni, he tell me to relax for today."

"Have you had lunch yet?" 

"No, but I order pasta soon."

Roger's voice was crackly over the phone, and Rafa thought that the way his chest tightened was something like how that sound would feel: like fizzling pop filling a glass bottle, or a piece of note paper crumpled up and thrown across the room behind the teacher's back. Rafa brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, trying to catalogue this sensation. 

"I hoped you would say that." There was a smile in Roger's voice now; Rafa filed that away as well. "Don't bother ordering, then. I've got your lunch right here."

A knock sounded on his door, the same moment the line went dead. It took Rafa a few seconds to understand―then he dropped the phone on the bed, the towel on the floor, and all but sprinted to open the door. He found Roger on the other side, grinning at him and holding up a large take-out bag.

"Hope you're hungry," said Roger. "I bought a lot of pasta."

Rafa knew he must be smiling like an idiot, but he didn't care. "Hello, Roger."

"Hello to you, too. Can I come in?"

"Oh! Yes, yes." Rafa pulled the door wide and flattened himself against the narrow entryway to let Roger pass. "Thank you very much, for bring me lunch."

"It's no problem." Roger's shoulder bumped against Rafa's as he stepped into the room. He smiled again, and his eyes were warm and dark. "Besides, I never got to thank you properly. For Monte Carlo."

The door closed behind him, and Rafa leaned on it for a moment. "Was nothing, no?" He tried to sound casual. Keep breathing. "Was...how you say? A pleasure?"

"It was all mine, I assure you," Roger said, and didn't move away. "I couldn't stop thinking about you for days, you know that? I still can't."

It was crowded in the entryway, barely enough space for them to step around each other. Roger's hand brushed against his arm, then higher, tracing his biceps up to the curve of his shoulder. A drop of water fell from Rafa's still wet hair onto his eyelashes; Rafa blinked and broke eye contact. Roger stepped back.

"Anyway," he said. "Lunch." 

And if his voice was a tad breathier than it had been thirty seconds ago, Rafa didn't comment. Didn't know how to comment, so he just followed Roger to the little table by the window, clearing a few bags out of the way.

"Sorry for mess," Rafa murmured, and though Roger said not to worry about it, Rafa was secretly (overwhelmingly) grateful that he'd at least tried to keep his room tidy. _Try_ being the keyword. There was still a bit of a mess (there was always a mess, wherever Rafa stayed) but it was a manageable sort of mess, at least. That was good, because Roger seemed like the kind of person who would actually care.

Then Roger opened the take-out boxes, and Rafa forgot all about messes and phone calls and crowded moments for a while, because Roger hadn't been lying when he said he'd bought a lot of food―and it all smelled divine. They shared each dish and both tried a bit of everything, and it was nothing exotic, but Rafa thought that if he had to rate all the lunches he's ever had, this would only be second to his mama's cooking.

While they ate, Roger told Rafa about his adventures that morning, how he had gone out to explore a bit after an early practice; how he had worn a drab old sweater and his dad's sunglasses to stay incognito; and how, when he'd stopped at the little family owned restaurant to buy their lunch, the shopkeeper's wife had looked at him, done a double take, and exclaimed, "I know you!"

Rafa put his fork down and wiped his mouth on a napkin. "She recognize you?"

Roger smiled. "Then she said, 'You're the boy who fixed our sink last winter!'" Rafa burst out laughing. "I had to tell her, no, I don't fix sinks, and I'm actually from Switzerland."

"She no watching tennis," Rafa said, grinning.

"Or maybe I just look like a plumber," Roger deadpanned. "Maybe I missed my calling in life."

"Maybe you go back now," Rafa said just as solemnly. "You learn. Be plumber. You will have much success, for sure."

Roger laughed then. "And what about you? Will you go back to Mallorca and be a fisherman?"

Rafa shrugged. "I like fishing very much." 

"More than you like tennis?"

"No." Rafa laughed. "Is impossible, no?"

"Fair enough. How about... Would you rather go fishing or play football?"

Rafa shook his head. "I like both very much. Is hard to say. I always playing tennis."

"It's just tennis all the time, for us," Roger agreed. "I like it, though. Maybe it's what we were meant to do."

"Maybe," Rafa said, and the silence that followed was comfortable.

They packed up the leftovers. Roger's phone rang, and he excused himself. Rafa picked up a few pairs of socks off the floor and chucked them into the laundry bag, then sat down on his bed. Roger had gone to the restroom to take the call; Rafa could hear his voice, just barely, a muffled sort of sound reverberating through the wall.

He didn't mean to fall asleep. But the bed was soft; it was a bit past noon; his stomach was full, and so was his heart. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and woke up to a soft voice murmuring, a hand resting lightly on his hip. Roger's chest pressed close against his back, and Roger was whispering into his ear,

"...could do something later. What do you think?"

Rafa breathed deep, sighing out the lingering remnants of sleep. "You go soon?" he mumbled. He turned his head, trying to see Roger. It was an awkward angle.

"Not yet." Roger kissed his neck, very lightly. Rafa shivered. His skin felt as if it were burning―burning up beneath Roger's hands, his lips. Maybe he was coming down with a fever. Or maybe it was just always like this. Because of Roger. Rafa wasn't sure which was worse.

"Stay," he heard himself say. He wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, but Roger's hand was warm on his hip, smoothing its way up toward his belly. Rafa covered it with his own, their fingers intertwining. "Stay, with me. Here."

Roger kissed his neck again. "Just for a while."

Thinking back to that day, Rafa would always remember how _bright_ it had been. The midday sun glancing off the window panes, setting the whole room alight with white and gold, a visual warmth matched only by the feel of Roger's hand against his skin, his back, his thigh, gently turning him over, feather-light kisses trailing down his spine.

Rafa remembered being scared, remembered how fast his heart beat, but Roger was gentle, Roger held him and kissed him and said, "You sure? You're okay?" And Rafa remembered the sun, the diamond light he could see even behind closed eyelids as Roger fucked him, slow―so slow―in the midst of the sleepy bright afternoon.

He didn't remember much else, just that afterwards, he'd gone to take a shower (Roger had laughed and told him to go first, because as romantic as it sounded, showering together wasn't all that practical) and when he emerged from the bathroom, Roger was gone. He found a note on his pillow, a scrap of paper with the hotel's logo printed in one corner. It read:

_Sorry I had to go. Mirka called.  
Thanks for today, and see you soon I hope._

_Roger_

The bathroom fan was still on, and the take-out bag was still on the table, holding half-empty boxes of leftovers. Rafa thought about taking a third shower; but he knew it would be a waste of water, knew it wouldn't make him feel any cleaner, not while he sat here, on the rumpled bed, holding a note with Mirka's name scrawled out in Roger's handwriting.

 

* * *

 

It was always Mirka. Stealing a kiss behind a row of lockers in London, his hands slipping on the fabric of Roger's shirt, falling asleep with Roger breathing next to him, midnight in Paris, and waking up the next morning, alone. Mirka was the reason Roger always left. Sometimes Rafa found a note on the table; sometimes he simply opened his eyes to an empty room, the click of the door still echoing in his ears, and the next day there would be a text message: _Sry i had to go see u next week_. There was always an apology―never an explanation.

But what other explanation did he want? It was Mirka; it was always Mirka, because Roger loved her. Rafa didn't want to think that it always would be Mirka, but he also knew how these things worked. He wasn't stupid, despite what Feli said―and Feli had a lot to say, as the months went on, and once became twice, then three times, then four, five, six, and eventually Rafa stopped counting. Feli yelled at Rafa and called him stupid and even threatened to tell Carlos―though what _that_ would accomplish, Rafa had no idea, and apparently Feli didn't either, because he never did follow through on it. 

It was lucky that Feli was too scared of Toni to even think about tattling to him, because Rafa didn't really want to know what would happen if his uncle ever found out. As it was, Toni seemed to think that Rafa had been having indiscretions with Feli―because they kept fighting―and Rafa was willing to let him believe that, because it was better than the truth.

Summer turned to fall, fall to winter, and Toni began to talk about the next season. Rafa listened with half an ear, checking his phone day and night, waiting for something, anything. There had been such silence since the season ended, and in the silence he felt acutely the weight of how unbearable this all really was, every stolen moment, every half-baked hope for something more, when he knew full well that this was all there was.

Between the end of 2007 and the beginning of the new year, he got exactly two texts from Roger: one on Christmas eve, and another two minutes into the first hour of 2008.

_Happy new year rafa! Sad to celebrate new year with noone to kiss at midnite haha. See u in australia_

Rafa was standing on the porch of his hotel room, heart thudding in his ears and a muggy breeze curling through his hair. He didn't dare ask where Mirka was, just typed back, _I owe you a kiss in australia no? See you there rogelio_ , then shut off his phone and told himself to stop thinking about it. 

In Australia, he lost to Tsonga in the semifinals―and Roger lost to Novak. Rafa waited in his room that night; phone in hand, hair still wet from the shower, he waited, remembering how Roger had found him when he'd first arrived in Melbourne. How happy Roger had looked to see him; how happy he'd been to see Roger. That seemed like years ago, on the other side of yesterday's match. And sometimes Rafa thought that tennis shouldn't mean so much to him―to both of them―except it did.

The spring hard court season came and went, and Rafa learned―along with the rest of the world―that Roger had been sick. Had been sick for months. But he was healthy now, he was medically cleared to compete, so that should have been the end of it. Only, he hadn't said anything about it to Rafa, and Rafa hadn't known how to ask.

In Monte Carlo, Rafa bought a pocket watch from an antique shop. The watch was old, but fully functional, and engraved on the front with the likeness of a soft-eyed cow. He thought Roger might like the watch. It was a bit silly, but―it had been one year, and Roger had asked him to dinner. 

Roger took him to a beautiful little restaurant overlooking the sea. The balcony was empty except for them, and the sweet voice of a violin sounded from somewhere within as the westward sun dipped below the horizon, staining the ocean with fire and gold. Rafa picked at the sleeve of his shirt (dressy, sky blue, Feli had said it looked good on him) and thought about how soft Roger's hair looked in the fading light, how much he wanted to run his fingers through those curls, feel Roger sigh against his skin.

Roger ordered wine―"A bit won't hurt," he said, when Rafa protested that they shouldn't, not during a tournament―and there was a strange little smile on his face when he said, "It's been a whole year, huh?"

Rafa wondered why he sounded so sad, wondered whether he should ask Roger about that, maybe. Then Roger said, "I'm so sorry, Rafa, I never should have―" He was looking down at his hands, avoiding Rafa's eyes. "We can't do this anymore."

The silence that fell echoed with the violin's song, the sound of voices, the sea in the distance. It wasn't a silence at all, because life went on, and he wanted to ask, "What do you mean," ask for an explanation, delay, anything―but Rafa wasn't stupid. (It didn't even hurt all that much, really, because somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd always thought that they, that this, all this, was just a bit too good to be true.)

So he said, "Is okay, Roger. I understand, no?" He understood, because he remembered how, a year ago, Roger had come to him, drunk, disheveled, eyes red as if he'd been crying―because he'd had a fight with Mirka. Rafa remembered. It was always Mirka. 

Spring ended, and summer unfolded in a haze of sunshine and dust. On the tennis court, Roger was not himself. On the tennis court, it made no difference. If it had been just the two of them, it might have been different; with tens of thousands of pairs of eyes watching, however, it was just tennis. And as much as Rafa wanted it to be otherwise, tennis mattered―to him, and to Roger. He remembered the way Roger's face crumpled in the fading light of Wimbledon―but mostly, he remembered the solid weight of the trophy in his arms. 

He also remembered the two times, between Monte Carlo and Wimbledon, that Roger had cornered him in discreet corridors, "Rafa, I― I can't― god, why is this― I'm so sorry," and each time his heart had leapt, only to crash to earth once again. Because, if nothing else, Roger was a man of his word. Or so Rafa told himself.

The skies over Beijing were a vague and dusty kind of blue, and Rafa watched the doubles final on the TV in his room, chewing on his thumbnail until Toni noticed and began to scold him as if Rafa were still a small child, a little boy who didn't know better and needed to be told what to do. Toni told him not to let himself be distracted, but Rafa didn't listen. It didn't matter; he won, didn't he? He won the gold medal all by himself.

(So why did it feel as if he'd lost? Why did it hurt so much to see Roger smiling atop that doubles podium, a medal around his neck and his arms around another man?)

In September, his knees began to hurt again. Not that they ever stopped hurting. The US Open would have to wait another year, Toni said, patting his shoulder gently. You did good, Rafa. I'm proud of you. It was a good year. Rafa nodded, agreed. Yes, it was a good year. 

Except it hadn't been. But Toni didn't need to know that. Toni didn't need to know that Roger still texted Rafa sometimes, and Rafa still got into arguments with Feli over whether or not he should reply to these texts. It would be rude to ignore the messages, Rafa said, his mama hadn't raised him to act like that, and Feli just told him that he was stupid. 

Rafa spent new year's eve in Abu Dhabi, rang in 2009 alone on the balcony of his hotel room, just as he had a year ago. Only, this time, his phone remained silent. No messages. No knock on his door. Roger's room was only two floors above, and Rafa could have―

(He'd thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that maybe, just maybe. He still owed Roger a kiss, after all. He never got to kiss Roger at the stroke of midnight. Never got to kiss Roger good morning. Never got to kiss him good-bye.)

Rafa clicked through the contacts on his phone, paused at the one that read: _Rogelio_. His mind felt oddly blank, but he knew what he was doing. This ending had been a long time coming, and really, he should have known, after Wimbledon. After the Olympics. 

His fingers only trembled a little as he clicked _Edit_ , then backspace, then retyped the display name to read: _Roger_. 

It was the new year, after all. It was time to move on.


	3. July 2011 to August 2011

The way it began was this.

To Rafa, summertime would always mean home. It didn't matter that his summers had become a whirl of clay and grass and American skies; it didn't matter that, nowadays, he spent more time on air planes than on the waters of his beautiful island; and it didn't matter that the linens pillowing his head at night belonged, more often than not, to hotels with corporate names. The memories of the sun, the heat, a sky as blue and free as the wind―all of this meant summer, meant Mallorca, and Manacor would always be home.

There was nothing better than coming home, people had written. Rafa wasn't sure what the names of those people were, exactly, but he knew that he'd had to read their poems in school, once upon a time. And as tedious as reading the stuffy old poets had been, said stuffy old poets had been right. Because home―these people, these streets, his mama's cooking and that twisted old tree he used to pass every day on the way to school―it was familiar. It was safe.

Maybe that was why. Returning home after Wimbledon, after Roland Garros, after a dizzying summer of red and gold and dusty glory, he let his guard down. And why shouldn't he? He was home.

So when Xisca invited him to go sailing on a Tuesday, Rafa brought Manolo along with them. Xisca gave him a disapproving look as they drove down to the beach. Rafa ignored her; Manolo was a nice man, and he wasn't stupid. Besides, they would be far from prying eyes out on the sea. It would be just fine. Xisca needed to relax; Rafa certainly planned to.

It was late July, the water was blue and the sky an endless canvas swept free of everything but wind and light. They took the boat out, out until the shore behind them was nothing more than a dark line of toy-figure shapes. Xisca stretched out on the deck, the smooth line of her back bathed in sunlight, and Rafa let the waves carry the boat, just drifting. The soft swaying motion carried him as well, soothed him as Manolo's arms encircled his waist and pulled him close.

There were only two photos, all told, and both were blurred, grainy, out of focus thanks to the extreme zoom. But there was no mistaking the man depicted in them, in profile: Rafa, lulled into false security by the sea and the sun and the promise of home. Rafa, hair dark and tousled, hands tangled in Manolo's soft brown locks, lips pressed to the corner of his smiling mouth.

 

* * *

 

They got the first call at 4 a.m. on a cloudy Wednesday morning in Cincinnati. It was Mirka who answered, sliding out of bed to press the phone to her ear, her voice edged with sleep as she murmured a soft, "Hello?"

 _Who is it_ , Roger wanted to ask. A yawn escaped his throat instead. He watched Mirka through half-closed eyes, studied the way her hair fell over her shoulders, the way her nightgown settled around the soft curves of her body, her figure silhouetted against the darkened room.

"Yes, this is Mirka. He is sleeping." She held the phone, elbow bent and head slightly tilted, listening in silence. Then she turned, slowly, walked to the adjacent living room and closed the door behind her. Roger wondered who could be calling at this hour. Someone with a bad sense of time zones. His dad, maybe.

He drifted between wakefulness and sleep, waiting for Mirka to come back to bed. He wasn't sure how long she was gone, but it seemed like a long time until finally the door opened with a soft click.

"Who was that?" he asked as she settled beside him, the mattress dipping under her warm weight.

"No one," she said. "Go back to sleep."

She settled into the curve of his arm, her cheek resting against his shoulder as Roger slipped back into a dreamless slumber. When he woke up again, it was morning. The bed was empty, and he could hear Mirka puttering around in the kitchen of their hotel suite.

He found her at the kitchen counter, stirring creamer into a cup of steaming black coffee. The girls were in their booster seats, and Roger kissed both of them on the cheek as he passed by, which got him a giggle from Myla and a vaguely grumpy look from Charlene. Mirka passed him the cup of coffee, turned her face away and the kiss caught her cheek rather than her lips.

"You should get dressed," she said. "The Nike representative will be here in about half an hour."

It took him a minute to process that. He frowned. "What for?"

"Someone got their hands on pictures of Nadal with another man," Mirka said, taking a spoon away from Myla before she could throw it halfway across the room again. "It hit the internet about four hours ago, and they want you to be prepared for any questions about it you might get."

Roger put down the coffee. "This was what the phone call earlier was about?"

"I didn't want to wake you."

"Who," Roger started to say. He cleared his throat, tried again, "Who'd he get caught with?"

"I don't know. Some guy." Mirka gave him a look. "Go get dressed, then come have some breakfast."

He showered first, closing his eyes under the stream of hot water, trying to think. But his thoughts were as clouded as the bathroom mirror, misted and dripping wet when he ran his hand across the condensation, water clinging to his fingers. He could barely make out his reflection in the glass.

Rafa. How could― It didn't make sense, because― _Rafa_.

This was all wrong. Rocks should be falling; the world should be ending; something appropriately dramatic and earth-shattering should be taking place. Yet here he was, 8:33 on a Wednesday morning, and as far as he could tell, the earth still orbited the sun, and all was well.

He dressed quickly: white polo, khakis, grey socks. The guy from Nike knocked on the door at 8:45 sharp, dressed in a grey suit and a tie that didn't quite match. He introduced himself as Gary. Roger shook his hand and invited him to sit, vaguely gratified to see that the other man looked nearly as uncomfortable as he felt.

"Here is the situation, Mr. Federer," said Gary, and Roger listened with half an ear as he essentially repeated what Mirka had already told him, only in many more words. Someone had gotten pictures of Mr. Nadal in Spain, in July. Now someone else had found those pictures, and published them online. The media shitstorm was already underway, and all Roger could think was, _How could this have happened?_ and _Why Rafa? Why?_

"So you have a plan for how I should respond to the press today." Roger didn't bother trying to make it sound like a question; the sponsors had a mandate for him, and it was his job to hear it.

Gary nodded. "We can't cancel either yours or Mr. Nadal's press conferences, after the matches. But we _can_ keep the questions focused on tennis, and tennis only."

"The questions should be about the tennis, anyway," Roger said. That earned him a vaguely disapproving look. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, hands twisting together out of nervous habit. "Basically, what you're saying is that you'd like me to take some avoidance tactics, and just ignore the issue as much as possible."

"We'd like to ignore the issue _completely_ , Mr. Federer. There is literally nothing we can do that will benefit us. Non-action is the best course of action in such cases."

"...I see." _And what about Rafa?_ he wanted to ask, but didn't. Couldn't. "We do nothing and wait for the whole thing to blow over."

"There will be other stories for them to chase," said Gary, reciting the line as if it were a mantra he had been taught as a young boy. A young boy training for a life in corporate scheming. "Weathering this media cycle is the priority, and to make sure no further damage is done."

"And you think this will work?"

"I think we can guarantee this if you follow our suggestions. We are doing our very best, Mr. Federer, and you must understand that our best is very good indeed."

Roger understood. The plan was to let this tidal wave of a mess sweep back out to sea, and drag Rafa down with it, if necessary. The sponsors must prioritize, protect their assets. And at this point, Rafa was no longer an asset. He was a liability, a weakness. As with all weaknesses, you could could one of two things: try to improve on it, take the chance of failure―or you could ignore it, hope it goes away and dies a quiet, quiet death. 

There was no room for failure in this case.

"I understand," he said, and that got him a faint smile from Gary. Roger could just imagine what was going through the other man's head. _Convince Roger Federer to play part of obedient puppet: check._

He shook Gary's hand, walked him to the door, closed it after him. Turned the lock.

 _Make sure no further damage is done_ , Gary had said. The phrase turned over and over in Roger's mind. He couldn't tell how much they knew, but he did know that there was a very real chance he could do some such further damage. Because the questions were bound to turn to him, to tie the two of them together. Someone was bound to connect some dots, draw a conclusion or two. And what then?

"So the guy finally left? He could have been gone fifteen minutes ago."

Roger started, turned around to find Mirka was standing right behind him, a patient frown on her face. He made a mental fumble, trying to think of something to say. She sighed.

"The door, Roger." She made a small waving motion with her hand. "You're blocking it."

"Sorry." He stepped out of her way, suddenly noticing her heels, the sunglasses and the wide-brimmed hat. She was also carrying her over the shoulder bag. The large one, the one she took with her on long day trips. "Where are you going?"

"To pick up some things for lunch. Probably best if we all stayed indoors today."

Probably.

"Mirka," he began, not entirely sure where he was going with this. "About what the guy said..."

The door handle turned, clicking loudly. "Not now, Roger." He couldn't see her eyes behind the sunglasses. "Not now, all right? I have to go. You can tell me when I come back."

Roger closed his mouth. Nodded. 

"And stop frowning so much. You'll get even more premature wrinkles."

He frowned at that―then realized what he was doing and quickly schooled his expression into blankness. A faint smile curved Mirka's lips. Roger thought about catching her arm, thought about pulling her close for a kiss goodbye, then thought better of it.

"Be careful," he said instead, and didn't add, _Talk to you when you get back_. Because knew he wouldn't. The moment had vanished; Mirka was walking out the door, but she would be back. That was how it was. He had other people to think of besides himself. He had Mirka. He owed her too much to be burning any bridges now. He'd always owed her too much.

 

* * *

 

Toni went with him everywhere, the days after the pictures leaked. As if he were afraid to let Rafa out of his sight―as if Rafa were four years old again, a child who needed to be watched over and protected lest he run away and get lost amidst a sea of strangers in the marketplace, a dangerous world all around him and no friends in sight. 

But Rafa had friends. He had Feli―Feli, who literally ran up to his hotel room just minutes after Rafa had checked in, told him once again just how utterly _stupid_ he was, and then pulled Rafa into a tight hug. Because, in the end, Feli was still his best friend, and Feli cared. They all cared: Marc, Fernando, David. Rafa knew who his friends were; he knew who would be there for him, when it really mattered.

Richie was there for him. Richie stuck by him, defended him to the French press clamoring for blood, as if Rafa had somehow betrayed their confidence, tainted their collective honor by having the audacity to win the French Open. 

"You defend me once," Richie said softly, when Rafa asked him why, "when no one else want to even see me. Now I am here for you, yes? You are my friend."

And then there was Novak. Novak, who bore a disproportionate amount of the general fall-out simply because they had played doubles together. Novak spoke out for him, too, delivered a verbal smackdown to a handful of reporters who had been giving everyone grief the entire week in Cincy. Questions about tabloid rumors and players' private lives have no place in the press room, said Novak. You are here to report on the tennis, are you not? We all have our jobs to do. You report the tennis, and I must play the tennis. I cannot go on court and play football. That does not belong here.

It cost him to say those things. Rafa didn't know exactly how much it had cost Novak―with the press, with the sponsors, with his own family―but he knew there had to be a heavy price. There always was, for stepping out of line. For shrugging off the demands of the world, and speaking your mind. Being who you really were.

The more your opinion mattered, the higher the stakes. Roger remained silent on the matter. It was what the sponsors wanted, and Rafa understood that. Rafa understood―even if though it hurt, the way an old injury sometimes did―when Roger passed by him on the way to practice, and their eyes met, but he didn't stop. Didn't ask how he was, didn't even say hello.

But maybe sometimes it was better to say nothing at all. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be, Roger and him.

And, honestly, Rafa wished he could just _not care_ about any of this. He wasn't ashamed of himself; he wasn't afraid to admit that he liked men. He didn't see why he should have to hide it, since he didn't care―except other people cared, and in the end, none of this was really about him, was it? It wasn't about him; it was about Benito, and all the hours of sleep he was going to lose, trying to find a safe route out of this; it was about the worried look that never left Toni's face, and the way his mama's face crumpled in disbelief when she found out―then anger, then a fierce protectiveness that took Rafa's breath away with the force of a thousand firm embraces. 

Because it was about everyone else. It was about his friends who had been forced to choose―to stand with him, and put themselves in the line of fire, or stay away.

Manolo called him, later that week. To ask if he was okay, if there was any way he could help. Rafa told him no, just stay out of sight for a while.

"So what happens now?" Manolo asked, his voice faint and static-blurred. 

"I don't know," said Rafa.

"I suppose we shouldn't see each other anymore. Not that it was a good idea in the first place. Wasn't really going to work anyway, was it?"

There was an accusation in his words, an accusation that Rafa couldn't, in good conscience, refute. "No," he said. "No, it wasn't. I'm so sorry, Manny."

"Don't be. I shouldn't have..." There was a silence. "I know it's a weird time to be saying this, but I hope you find someone who makes you happy, Rafa. It's just you have really high expectations, you know? That's always been the problem with you."

But how could he not have high expectations, Rafa wondered. How could he help it, when he had had perfection, if only for a handful of stolen moments? He'd had Roger. 

It was all too much. He wanted it all to just go away―wanted Toni to go away, stop following him everywhere, because the way he constantly looked over his shoulder only reminded Rafa of how even a beautiful day on a calm blue sea could be as treacherous as a tropical storm. 

Even on the tennis court, he couldn't forget, because something would remind him―looking up to the scoreboard during the changeover, catching a ballkid's eyes for a moment, walking up to the baseline to serve. He could practically hear the whispers in the stands, the scrutiny following his every move. He tried to ignore it all, treat it like any other distraction, a stray breeze, a sore muscle.

He played tennis. He won, he lost, and he kept going, because that was his job. He wasn't exactly at his best; hard courts had never suited him, but he held his ground. His knees ached―and so did his heart―but he held on.

 

* * *

 

It bothered him. 

Here they were, in a situation few could have expected, and with an _opportunity_ to turn this media circus into something real, something meaningful and earth-shattering. Here they were, at a crossroads, and it was entirely possible that they could end up being swept away by the world running, if not exactly _against_ , then at least perpendicular; but it was also possible that they could move ahead, finally move past this roadblock. 

Andy Roddick called him, two days after the news broke, to ask how he was doing, were the sponsors getting all up on his ass about it―and Roger could only tell him, "I'm not really supposed to talk about it, Andy. You understand." 

"Oh, sure. Sure." Andy went silent for a moment. "It's just...it's different in Switzerland, isn't it? You guys don't care as much about this celeb gossip, and there isn't the whole anti-gay thing going on, splashed all over the headlines every other day."

Roger pinched the bridge of his nose. "What are you trying to say?"

"People here care about this stuff. And maybe you're not their national hero, but they care about you and your opinion, you know? That's all I wanted to tell you."

"Is this the part where you quote Spiderman at me?"

"No, you dumbass. I'm trying to have a serious conversation here." Andy laughed anyway. "Well. Good luck on your match later. I'll see you in New York."

He couldn't get Andy's words out of his head, even after he hung up. They circled his thoughts, an endless loop, and he found that he couldn't sit still. He paced. Tried to write some emails, but couldn't find the words. 

It had been two days, and it bothered him. The rest of the world was talking up a storm, trying to make sense of this, trying to find a coherent story in the chaos―and he, Roger Federer, had been muzzled like a disobedient dog. He'd had two more meetings with Nike reps in the last two days, and each time they'd asked him to say nothing on the matter, they were working on it, they had it under control. He just had to keep quiet and help contain the situation.

It bothered him. 

He should be saying something, surely? He wasn't the world number one anymore, but he was _Roger Federer_ , and surely, he was expected to say _something_. A simple, _This doesn't matter to the tennis. Let's move on_. That would be all. That would be enough. 

(Except he knew it wouldn't be, not really. He owed Rafa so much more than an off-hand dismissal. He owed Rafa more than he could even begin to explain. How would he even begin?)

There was one interview where he nearly slipped up. Pam Shriver, catching up with him in the hallway after a slog of a quarterfinal against Davydenko―which he'd nearly lost, distracted by something someone had said in the stands right behind him, 4-3 in the second set tiebreak. 

And, of course, she asked him about that moment. What happened? There was always some noise from the crowds, wasn't there? Why did he lose his composure?

Because it had been loud, clearly audible, and completely disrespectful, Roger all but snapped back at her. It was deliberate and it was disrespectful, that was why he'd been distracted, because all this was a bit unnecessary and no one was really focusing on the tennis, were they now? It wasn't any of their business, honestly. Everyone had secrets. Everyone had a right to their private lives. 

Pam's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline, and that was when Roger remembered that _Pam_ wasn't responsible for this mess. She was only doing her job. And she did it well, moving quickly to cover Roger's misstep, 

"Well, I'm sure none of you want to hear about _my_ dirty secrets, so next topic please! It seems that your left hip has been bothering you..."

His left hip was bothering him, but it wasn't serious. Just serious enough to maybe factor into his straight sets loss to Murray in the semis. But it did give him a little extra time to prepare for the US Open, so there was that. He tried to focus on the positive. He tried.

They headed for New York, and secretly Roger was glad to be close to the noise of the city again. He listened to the radio, read the news when Mirka wasn't looking. (She told him to ignore it, because if he read the news it would give him premature wrinkles, as if he didn't have enough of those already.) He read the interviews, mostly. McEnroe, Moya, Djokovic. Austin, Pennetta. Gimelstob. Navratilova. He read the entire transcript of an interview with Billie Jean King.

 _It's not always easy, doing the right thing,_ she said. Roger could practically hear her voice in his head. Mellow, unmistakable, roughened around the edges. _It's not easy, because most times, it's hard just to know what the right thing is. Even harder is actually doing it. And maybe there isn't really a right thing. But you have to make a choice. Or else sometimes other people make the choice for you. That's what happened to me, and it's happening to Rafa._

It's difficult, Roger thought as he put down the newspaper. It's difficult. 

The key turned in the lock. Roger tucked the paper under a pile of magazines on the coffee table before turning toward the door. Mirka was home. His mom and dad had taken the girls out for the afternoon, so Mirka had gone to do a little shopping on her own. (De-stressing, Roger thought. Escaping, if only for a few consumerist hours.)

"Did you get the shoes you wanted?" he asked, then noticed that she had only brought back a small paper bag.

"I bought bagels," she said, kicking off her shoes at the door. "I thought you were going to go talk to Seve? You've been reading the papers again, haven't you."

"What?" Roger knew he must look sheepish, hands in his pockets and everything. "Just a little."

Mirka sighed. "You're a terrible liar, you know. How do you even survive."

Roger winced at the tone behind her words; now even Mirka was upset with him. She went to put away the bagels. Roger glanced at the calendar on the wall: August 21st, exactly one week before the US Open. He paced the room, circling the couch and the coffee table, listening to the sounds of Mirka puttering about, a cupboard slamming shut. The apartment was too quiet with the girls gone.

He peered into the kitchen. She was washing her hands, late afternoon sunlight slanting through the window above the sink, catching her face, illuminating her dusky-brown hair.

"Mirka, I―"

She shut off the tap, wiped her hands on a towel. "Sit down." Mirka glanced over her shoulder at him. "I want to talk to you."

He sat down at the counter. Mirka pulled up a stool next to him.

"It's bothering you, isn't it," was the first thing she said. Roger didn't have to ask what "it" referred to. He shook his head, but it wasn't a denial.

"I'm not allowed to say anything. It's like I'm sixteen again, and they have to script every single interview I do. I don't know what they're trying to do, Mirka. I honestly..." He sighed through his nose. "It's a terrible plan, whatever they have going on right now."

"So why didn't you tell them that? You could have told them no if it made you this unhappy."

"It's not about _me_."

"Of course it's about you," said Mirka. She sounded tired. "You see an opportunity to do something about the situation, but you're too scared to actually do it. And you feel like you shouldn't be scared, and that's making you unhappy, so you're blaming them. But it's not about them; it's about you."

Roger stared at her. "So, what? You're saying that I should come out in full support of gay men in tennis and make Martina proud?"

"This is not about _them_ , Roger!" Now her voice filled with anger. A tired, resigned sort of anger that sent a dagger right through his heart. She went on, "It's not about them, alright? It's about you. If this were just any other issue about acceptance or openness or whatever, it wouldn't be bothering you this much. It's only bothering you because it's _Rafa_."

"Why does it matter if it's Rafa?" That didn't sound convincing, even to his own ears.

"You wouldn't be this worked up if it were Soderling."

"Soderling isn't gay."

"That's beside the point," Mirka snapped. "I saw the email you were writing, to Rafa. You left your laptop open on the coffee table."

Roger's hands went cold. "I was just writing to see how he's doing. And I didn't even send the email."

"Well, why didn't you? And where did you go last Friday? You told me you were going for coffee with Seve, but he told me he had a long-distance conference call that afternoon."

"I went for a _walk_ ," said Roger. Mirka's eyes were full of suspicion. He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. What could he say? "Seve was supposed to come with me, but he had that call. It just happened. Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Because I know you," she said, "and I know there are two things you care too much about. One of them is tennis. The other is Rafa."

Roger stood up, his chair scraping loudly over the tiles. "This is ridiculous. You're getting mad at me over something I didn't even do."

"Not yet, maybe, but you've got the idea in your head now and you're not going to let it go."

"We're not talking about this." He turned to walk back to the living room.

"Do you love me?"

Her words stopped him at the door. "What?”

"Lately it doesn't seem like you do." He couldn't decipher the tone of Mirka's voice. "It doesn't seem like you're happy either. You have that look from 2008, like you're being forced to settle for less. I don't want you to be unhappy, and I don't want to be second best."

"Are you saying that you want me to leave?"

"No. I'm saying that you're hearing me telling you to leave."

He turned back, stared at her. Mirka looked away, toward the window with the sunset in its panes. "Make a choice, Roger. Do what you think is right, or do what you want, but don't confuse the two."

"I don't need you telling me what to do."

"I'm just telling you that, if you leave now, don't think you'll be coming back."

She sounded―she sounded _calm_. As if she were okay with this. As if she had already thought this over, come to terms with it. Found it an acceptable denouement, even.

But when he asked her, all she said was, "I've been thinking about it for a long time," her voice tinted slow and sad, a wistful something edging her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday dawned grey and clouded, a blustery wind coming in from the northeast, nipping at pedestrian heels. It would rain later; the atmosphere was stifling, heavy, pressing down against his chest and making it hard to breathe.

Roger woke with the first hint of light, restless and unable to go back to sleep. The space beside him was empty―Mirka had slept with Charlene and Myla in the other room, Charlene having come down with a bit of a cold―and the emptiness was suddenly too much to bear. He needed to leave, go somewhere else, find a place that didn't remind him of all that he had and had to lose. He needed to leave.

The clock on the bedside table read 5:25 as he slipped out of bed, slipped on a light grey t-shirt that matched the color of the sky. All was quiet. He took his keys, his wallet, left his phone on the coffee table; the click of the lock as he closed the door behind himself sent a rush of something sweet and forbidden through his veins. For a moment, he could almost forget that he was now on the wrong side of thirty and getting no younger.

It was early, so he walked. He walked the four and a half blocks to the Marriott by the tennis center, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes as he thought about a dream that he only half-remembered. Roger wasn't a person who dreamed often, but when he did, he often dreamed of places. Last night his dreams had been filled with visions of Centre Court, dusk falling onto yellowed grass; of Melbourne, a night flooded tear-bright with stadium lights; of Monte Carlo, the summer evening misting cool and clean, Mirka on his mind and Rafa in his arms. 

He couldn't remember what the point of any of his dreams had been. He only knew he'd woken, restless, and with one unbearable, unbreakable thought on his mind: he had to see Rafa. 

So he here was. Barely six in the morning, a hotel lobby, a security officer and no one else in sight. Roger looked around himself, at the empty chairs and the clean, bright marble tiles of the floors, and felt his conviction waver. What was he doing here? He should be in bed, at home, with his wife, his daughters. He had a life to live, so what was he doing here?

An elevator dinged. Roger turned toward it, just in time to see Rafa step out into the lobby, a pair of Apple headphones curling white around his neck. Rafa looked up, and paused. He seemed surprised to see Roger, and Roger watched as the surprised quickly melted into confusion, then even more quickly into a resigned sort of wariness.

"Roger," he said, his words softly accented but sharper than Roger had heard in a long time. It had been a long time since they had last spoken. "What are you doing here?"

It took Roger a moment to find his voice, but he couldn't find the words. “You're up early,” he managed.

Rafa just looked at him, his eyes steady. “I go for a walk, to relax. It is very nice in the mornings.”

“Looks like it might rain today.”

“Not until later.”

“I'd like to talk to you.” There was a pause, and Roger breathed, gathering himself together. “I'd like to talk to you,” he repeated, “if you have the time.”

The silence stretched on this time, interminable, intolerable. Roger met Rafa's eyes, and waited.

“You say it might rain?” Rafa said finally.

“Probably not until later.”

“But it will rain.” Rafa uncoiled the headphones from around his neck, bundled up the wires and put it away in his pocket. His hands were steady, as was his voice. “Would you like to come up? We will talk in my room.”

Roger followed him into the elevator, standing on the opposite side as the door closed, not quite leaning against the wall. Rafa pressed a button for the seventh floor.

“How is Mirka, and the girls?” Rafa asked.

“Good,” Roger answered. “Charlene's got a bit of a cold, but it's not serious. They're good.”

Rafa hummed a noise of agreement. “That is good.”

Roger listened to the sound of the elevator slowing, the doors opening with a soft chime. Their footsteps were loud against the floor, and then Rafa was inviting him into his room, saying, “Sorry about the mess. I try to make it clean, but always...” He gestured at the bags scattered on the floor, the t-shirts and plastic wrappings, the bundle of cords and cables flowering beside his laptop on the table. The door to the adjoining bedroom was closed, and Rafa flicked on the lights to replace the blue-grey of dawn with yellow lamp-glow.

A faint smile tugged at Roger's lips as he looked around the room. There was always a mess, a bit of barely controlled chaos wherever Rafa went. It suited him, Roger thought. It suited Rafa, who was full of life and unexpected turns, beautiful and strange like sunlight on shifting ocean waters, and always too much to contain. 

Rafa offered him an armchair, after removing pile of towels from it first. Roger sat, and Rafa perched on the edge of the adjacent couch. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Rafa asked.

“Anything, really.” Roger looked down at his hands. “It's been a while, since we've talked or anything.”

“We are both very busy, no?”

“Yes, but...” Roger glanced up. Rafa was looking at the far side of the room, a faint frown on his face. “The guy from Nike told me that I should keep quiet, you know? They told me they'd handle it, but I had to not say anything. At all. That's what they told me, but... It didn't mean I should ignore you altogether. I'm sorry for that.”

“It's okay, Roger. I understand.”

“Mirka and I sort of had a fight about it.”

“About Nike?”

“No, about... I tried writing you an email over the weekend, but I never finished it. Mirka must have seen it on my laptop, and she kind of freaked out over it. She basically accused me of...I don't know. Of wanting to leave her.”

Rafa said nothing for a long moment. Then, “Why you tell me all this, Roger? There is nothing happening, no? If you wish me to tell Mirka that, I will.”

“No, that's not...” Roger ran a hand through his hair, fidgeted with the cap in his hands. “It's just... This whole situation right now, with the press and everyone talking about you... I'm sorry this doesn't really make much sense. I guess I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You did not have to come at this early in the morning for that,” said Rafa, but his voice was gentle. “I am well, Roger. Do not worry. The story will go away soon, no? Always more interesting people for paparazzi to chase, and reporters go back to talk about tennis. Benito say it will be old news by Australia next year.”

“I'm not worried about the media cycle. I just don't like it that you have to take all the heat for this, on your own. I mean, we know there are other guys in the top 100... You remember there was an article, an interview with King a few years back? She said she hoped one day the men's side of the tour would be more open, like the women are now. She said all it would take was a few top guys speaking up about it.” Roger looked down at his hands again. “I think this is pretty much the situation she was talking about.”

Rafa sighed. “She will not push you to risk your own career,” he said, then fell silent. Eventually, he added, “I talk to her, yesterday. She call me, and she say she can help if I want to have press conference the next week, in the states. She can help with media.”

“Will you do it?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Toni think better to wait until after the US Open, so it will not be a big distraction.” Rafa shrugged. “But I think some things more important than tennis, no? There are some things.”

“I think so, too,” said Roger.

“That I should have press conference?”

“That there are things more important than a tennis career.”

A shadow of a smile touched Rafa's lips. “What are some of those things?”

“Honesty. Responsibility.” Roger paused, weighing what he was about to say. The words sat heavy on his mind. “Doing the right thing. Being true to yourself."

“Is difficult to do all those things.”

“But if you had a chance, wouldn't you do the right thing?”

“For sure, I would try.”

Roger nodded, more to himself than anything else. “I'd like to think I would, too.”

“You are planning something,” said Rafa. It wasn't a question.

“Yes.”

“Do not do this.”

Roger looked up at that. “Why shouldn't I? I have just as much a right to speak my mind as the rest of the world. And I have something to say about this. Above anyone else, I should―“

“No.” Rafa's voice was firm. “It is better you do not become involved.”

“I have to do the right thing.”

“There are other top players. Novak, he already speaking out about this. Many people are listening, and they support me. You do not have to save nobody. It is not your responsibility only.”

“I'm not just saying this because I feel like I have some moral obligation. I want to do the right thing for someone that I care a lot about.” _Someone that I love_. But he didn't say that out loud. Couldn't. Couldn't find the courage, couldn't quite find the words to shape the turmoil of his thoughts. “I want to do this for _you_.”

Rafa wouldn't meet his eyes. “You saying things you do not mean.”

“Rafa... I never meant for it to happen this way, you know? I never meant to...” Roger rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He could feel the headache lurking somewhere behind his eyes, and there was a deep weariness in his bones. “I know you have— I know you don't feel the same way, but I really care about you. You're important to me, and this is important to me. I've always cared about you.”

Silence. Rafa said nothing, barely moved at all; if not for the slight rise and fall of his chest visible beneath the t-shirt, he could have been a statue. Roger breathed, and waited. Waited for a rejection. A response. Anything. Outside, he heard a distant rumble of thunder. The storm was fast approaching.

Finally, Rafa shook his head. Then he shook his head again. “How you still not know, Roger?” he said, his voice so, so soft that it was practically inaudible. “I tell you long time ago, no? I tell you the first time: te quiero. This has not changed.”

“But your friend...” Roger could hear his heart racing. “The one who was in the pictures with you?”

“Manolo? He break up with me. Because I always compare him to you, no?” Rafa sounded—sad, almost. “I always compare them to you, and they cannot compare.”

“I didn't know.”

“But you have Mirka, no? You have so much... It does not matter.”

Roger told himself to breathe, to remember to breathe. He slid down from his seat to the floor, folding onto his knees in front of Rafa. And Rafa didn't flinch away when Roger touched him, so cautiously, Rafa's hands on his knees and Roger's palms against his fingers, calloused and warm and familiar like a dream. 

“Without you,” said Roger, “without you is the only time it wouldn't matter. And I don't want it to not matter.”

“Do not say these things, Roger.” Rafa's voice was barely a whisper. Lightning lit up the pale darkness outside, a flash of white against the grey morning.

“Hold the press conference,” Roger said. “Let me be there with you.”

He licked his lips, shook his head. “No. I will not.”

“Let me do this with you, Rafa.”

“Is not a good idea.”

Roger's eyes flickered from Rafa's eyes to his lips, and back again. This close, he could see the lines edging Rafa's eyes, acquired from too many years of squinting into the sun, soaking it up, drinking in its beauty. He wanted it―wanted to touch that beauty, if only for a moment, and it would be enough.

“I think we've had worse ideas,” said Roger, listening to the storm rumbling outside. He leaned forward, closed his eyes, and pressed their lips together. 

It was an awkward angle, his mouth was dry and Rafa hadn't shaved properly, cheek scratchy with stubble―but Rafa still tasted like liquid gold, like Spanish summers, like home and promises and every childhood dream come true. And this much was still the same; this, at least, would always be perfection.

Rafa held back; Roger could sense it, even as he felt the tension in his body straining forward. He deepened the kiss, insistent, refusing to settle for less. Rafa gasped softly into his mouth, and his hands reached out for him, instinctive, fingers tangling in Roger's hair, inviting him closer. 

It was a kiss to drown in, like a dream that you would die for, just to keep yourself from ever waking up. (And this, Roger thought, this was something to die for. This was something to _live_ for.)

Rafa drew back first, breathless and trembling around the edges. Roger tilted his head just slightly, resting their foreheads together. Rafa didn't open his eyes.

“You cannot do this,” Rafa whispered. “You have family. The press... It will not look good.”

“I've already made up my mind.” Roger traced the line of Rafa's jaw with his thumb, memorizing the warmth of his skin. “This isn't about Mirka; this is about you, and me. And they can't fault me for being who I am. They can't fault me for supporting you, for doing the right thing. It'll be fine, if we do this right. It will be fine.”

“And after?” Rafa asked, eyes flickering open to look at him, his gaze uncertain. “What will happen after?”

Roger brushed a wayward strand of hair away from Rafa's eyes. “We'll see when we get there,” he said. “But whatever happens, I'm not letting you go again. Maybe I'm being selfish, and maybe you don't believe me, but I'll make this work, Rafa. You have to believe me when I say I care so much about you. No matter what.”

Rafa shook his head again, but he said nothing. He seemed to be thinking; Roger waited, listening to the wind howling outside, beating against the windows and the walls. Then suddenly Rafa stood, pulling Roger up with him.

“You must go, before the rain,” he said, stepping back to leave an empty space between them. “Mirka will worry.”

“Rafa—”

“You have a wife, and a family. They are more important, no? Nothing is more important than family.”

Roger stared at him, helpless. “Rafa...” He didn't know how to say it, he'd never known how to say it. “Rafa, I know this sounds crazy and maybe you don't want to hear this but I―”

“Roger, please go.”

“―I love you.”

Now it was Rafa's turn to stare. Time held its breath, and even the storm was silent for these few moments, a heartbeat before the next crash of lightning. Roger waited; he held Rafa's gaze, heart pounding in his ears, and waited.

“Roger,” said Rafa, finally. “You know what 'te quiero' mean?”

“It means...” Roger hesitated, caught off-balance by the question. He searched Rafa's face. “It means, 'I want you,' right?”

A crooked little smile curved Rafa's lips. There was something incredulous, something at once sorrowful and wonderful in his eyes as he said, “No. It means, I love you.”

And it was like lightning illuminating the world, within and without, every moment and word and thing suddenly thrown into sharp photographic relief. 

“Oh,” said Roger, as Rafa reached for his hands, pulled him close. Their fingers fit together like a pair of mismatched gloves, and Roger said, “Oh.”

Then Rafa was kissing him, kissing him again and again until the storm clouds dissolved into darkness splintered with light, rain lashing the window and thunder roiling right over their heads. But what did that matter. Inside, it was warm; inside, there was the glow of the lamplight and, inside, there was Rafa.

The storm had been a long time coming. But what did it matter now. 

After the storm, everything would change.

 

* * *

 

They talked to their PR people. Roger talked to Mirka; Rafa talked to his mama. They would make this work; they would find a way. Because, after all, if not them, then who? If not now, then when, if ever? 

So they talked to the people they needed to talk to, worked on the things needed to be worked out. They memorized the questions, rehearsed their lines; came up with a statement, exactly one and a half pages long. They prepared themselves for the doubts, the speculation, the outcry and the thinly veiled accusations. 

And at 5:58pm EST on a bright Sunday afternoon in New York, the last day before the US Open, they listened to the murmuring of reporters in the conference hall, rumbling like a storm gathering on the horizon. Behind the tinted glass doors of the holding area, Rafa stood with his back to the wall, and Roger paced.

They were ready. They had to be.

His watch read 5:59 and ten seconds; Mirka's wedding ring felt cold against his knuckle. Roger stopped pacing, drew in a slow breath. He looked to Rafa; Rafa opened his eyes, looked back at him, and Roger thought of all the years and moments that had lead them to here, to now. There were things he regretted, too many things perhaps, but it was never too late to make a change. At least, they were determined to try.

One of the handlers came hurrying up to them, a clipboard in one hand and a cell phone in the other. “Mr. Federer. Mr. Nadal,” she said. “They're ready for you.”

Roger's eyes never once left Rafa's face. “Are you scared?” he asked.

Rafa shook his head; he straightened his shoulders, a faint smile shadowing his lips as he turned toward the tinted glass doors. 

“No, if you are not.”


	4. August 2nd, 2012

**THE MAESTRO'S LAST ENCORE**  
_London_ | _2 Aug 2012_ | _The HawkEye Courtside Report_

At 7:48 p.m. GMT, as the first shadows stretched over the grass on Centre Court, six time Wimbledon champion and 17 time Grand Slam winner Roger Federer concluded the last match of his professional tennis career, losing 4-6, 7-6(1), 5-7 to countryman Stanislas Wawrinka in the third round of the London Olympics.

Wawrinka embraced his good friend and one-time doubles partner at the net, the pair having won the men's doubles gold medal at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. In the four Olympic Games Federer has played, he has never won a medal in the singles event. 

This fact mattered little today, however, as the sold-out stadium rose as one in a fitting tribute for Federer, who waved to the audience with tears in his eyes but a smile on his face. The standing ovation lasted for well over five minutes, with linesmen and ballkids alike joining in to show their appreciation.

Fellow players, current and retired, were present to honor Federer in a short ceremony following the match. Federer was presented with a trophy engraved with lines from Rudyard Kipling's classic poem, “If”. Lines that are, surely, as familiar as those on the court to the decorated tennis star. 

Federer had few lines of his own as he addressed the audience:

“Thank you, thank you so much. I hardly know where to begin, to thank you all and this sport for all that it's given me. It's been an incredible experience, and a privilege, and sometimes I wish I could play forever. But I'll never forget any of this, so I guess that's forever, too. 

“Retirement... Wow, I still don't like the sound of that word. [Laughs] But all these wonderful memories will help me through it. I'll have so many wonderful moments to look back on, and hopefully many more to look forward to with the people I love. So thank you, thank you all. It's been an honor.”

Also present to witness this moment was Rafael Nadal, Federer's longtime rival and now partner. Nadal, who lost here in the early rounds, has been in Federer's box to support him in all of his matches this week. The former world numbers one and two came out to the press last summer, stunning players and fans alike.

Federer, who considered retirement late last year, cites Nadal as a primary reason for his decision to continue to play even while his ranking slipped. 

“I've always said I wanted to play at the London Olympics, because it's at Wimbledon, and obviously this is a very special tournament for me,” said Federer in his post-match interview. “And I'm glad I did. I'm glad Rafa encouraged me to, you know, to keep playing. To not give up, because he still believed in me, and so did a lot of other people. I feel very blessed, to have such great people in my life.”

Another one of those people may be Federer's ex-wife, Miroslava Vavrinec. Following the events of August 2011, Federer and Vavrinec came to an understanding and divorced in October of that year, a quiet affair like their marriage two years earlier had been.

The two still maintain an "amicable" relationship and have joint custody of their twin daughters, Charlene Riva and Myla Rose.


End file.
